The Voice of the Oyster

The oyster says nothing
As she forms her pearl.
She keeps
And ponders in her heart
The secrets of her art,
The exultation of her creation.

Saying nothing (again),
When Man, pillaging, plucks the pearl,
Forcing apart her protection
Into a gaping, soundless scream,
Ripping her quiet masterpiece
From her center
With a hollow, animal shout of triumph,
With the slippery glee of violation rewarded.

Who asks the oyster,
“May I please have your pearl?”
Or
“What can I give you in exchange
For your essence, your core?”
Who asks the oyster anything?

She wouldn’t answer anyway, you know.
Not with words – words are for Man,
For the thief, the one with the knife
To prise open the secret,
Precious places.

But put away the blade, the insistence
And listen to the hush of the oyster.
A patient caress,
An appreciative ear,
And her resistant walls unfold.
Her armor opens willingly, shyly,
Mutely,
Almost.
Only a whisper,
A barely sound,
The breath of Life,
The murmur of a treasure
Offered.